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Arise, and make again your own:
Snatch from the ashes of


The embers of their former fires ;
And he who in the strife expires
Will add to theirs a name of fear,
That Tyranny shall quake to hear,
And leave his sons a hope, a fame,
They too will rather die than shame;
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeathed by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.




No cymbal clashed, no clarion rung,

Still were the pipe and drum;
Save heavy tread, and armor's clang,

The sullen march was dumb.
The vaward scouts no tidings bring,

Can rouse no lurking foe,
Nor spy a trace of living thing

Save when they stirred the roe.
The host moves like a deep sea-wave
Where rise no rocks its pride to brave;
While, to explore the dangerous glen,
Dive through the pass the archer-men.
At once there rose so wild a yell
Within that dark and narrow dell,
As all the fiends from heaven that fell
Had pealed the banner cry of hell !

Forth from the pass in tumult driven,
Like chaff before the wind of heaven,

The archery appear :
For life! for life! their flight they ply-
And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry,
And plaids and bonnets waving high,
And broadswords flashing to the sky,

Are maddening in the rear.
Onward they drive in dreadful race,

Pursuers and pursued ;
Before that tide of flight and chase,
How shall it keep its rooted place,



cows the


The spearmen's twilight wood ?
Down! down! cried Mar, your

lances down!
Bear back both friend and foe!”
Like reeds before the tempest's frown,
That serried grove of lances brown

At once lay leveled low;
And closely shouldering side to side,
The bristling ranks the onset bide.

We'll quell the savage mountaineer,
As their tinchel *
They come as fleet as forest deer,

We'll drive them back as tame.”
Bearing before them, in their course,
The relics of the archer force,
Like wave with crest of sparkling foam,
Right onward did Clan-Alpine come.

Above the tidc, each broadsword bright
Was brandishing like beam of light,

Each targe was dark below ;
And, with the ocean's mighty swing,
When heaving to the tempest's wing,

They hurled them on the foe.
I heard the lance's shivering crash,
As when the whirlwind rends the ash!
I heard the broadsword's deadly clang,
As if a hundred anvils rang!
But Moray wheeled his rearward rank
Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank.
• My banner-men, advance !

," he cried, “ their column shake -
Now, gallants ! for your ladies' sake,

Upon them with the lance !”
The horsemen dashed among the rout,

As deer break through the broom;
Their steeds are stout, their swords are out,

They soon make lightsome room.
Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne -

Where, where was Roderick then ?
One blast upon his bugle-horn

Were worth a thousand men.
And refluent through the pass

of fear * A Tinchell is a circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding a great space, and gradually narrowing, bring immense cuantities of deer together.

I see,

The battle's tide was poured ;
Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear,

Vanished the mountain sword.
As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep,

Receives her roaring linn,
As the dark caverns of the deep

Suck the wild whirlpool in,
So did the deep and darksome pass
Devour the battle's mingled mass :
None linger now upon the plain,
Save those who ne’er shall fight again!



Stop! for thy tread is on an empire's dust;

An earthquake's spoil is sepulchered below! Is the spot marked with no colossal bust ?

Nor column trophied for triumphal show ?

None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so.
As the ground was before, thus let it be.

How that red rain hath made the harvest grow!
And is this all the world has gained by thee,
Thou first and last of fields, king-making Victory?
There was a sound of revelry by night,

And Belgium's capital had gathered then
Her beauty and her chivalry; and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men :

A thousand hearts beat happily ; and when
Music arose, with its voluptuous swell,

looked love to eyes which spake again ; And all went merry as a marriage-bell. But hush ! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell !


ye not hear it? No; 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street:
On with the dance ! let joy be unconfined !
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet

To chase the glowing hours with flying feet !
But, hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before.
Arm! arm ! it is, it is the cannon's opening roar !

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Within a windowed niche of that high hall

Sat Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with death's prophetic ear :

And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
His heart more truly knew that peal too well,

Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell:
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell!
Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,

And găthering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago

Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness ;

And there were sudden partings, such as press
The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs

Which ne'er might be repeated : who could guess
If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise !
And there was mounting in hot haste : the steed,

The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,

And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;

And the deep thunder, peal on peal, afar, And near, the beat of the alarming drum

Roused up the soldier ere the morning-star; While thronged the citizens, with terror dumb, Or whispering, with white lips, " The foe! they come ! they


the day,

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life;

Last eve, in beauty's circle, proudly gay;
The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife;

The morn, the marshaling in arms

Battle's magnificently stern array !
The thunder-clouds close o'er it; which, when rent,

The earth is covered thick with other clay,
Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse, friend, foe, in one red burial blent.


Old Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when the earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright

And he sang,

And they sang,

The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand

On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear :
“ Hurra for

my handiwork!
Hurra for the spear and sword !
Hurra for the hand that wields them well,

For he shall be king and lord !”
To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire;
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade,

As the crown of his heart's desire.
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,

Till they shouted loud for glee, And

gave him gifts of pearl and gold, And spoils of the forest tree;

“ Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who has given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, and hurra for the fire,

And hurra for the metal true!"
But a sudden change came o'er his heart

Ere the setting of the sun ;
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain,

For the evil he had done.
He saw that men, with


and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was fed with the blood they shed, And their lust for carnage

blind; And he said, “ Alas ! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan, The

spear and sword for man, whose joy
Is to slay his fellow-man.”
And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite the ore,

And his furnace smouldered low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,

And a bright, courageous eye,
And he bared his strong arm for the work,

While the quick flames mounted high ;
And he said, “ Hurra for my

handiwork!" And the fire-sparks lit the air;

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